The Enmity
by Fruitiest of Mallards
Summary: No one must know the identity under the mask. The Ninja has enemies and Randy is just a boy caught up in the middle of the tension, doing his best to serve the Namakon while simultaneously trying to stay alive and ambiguous. But the hostile eyes are always watching, waiting for an opening, a clue, and it's only a matter of time before everything goes awry.
1. Shot Down

_- The Enmity._

_- Celeste Angela Pichowsky/Fruitiest of Mallards/cellyangiechowski._

_M –_ _not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with non-explicit suggestive adult themes, references to some violence, or coarse language._

_[Suspense - family - angst - drama.]_

* * *

**- THIRTEEN MONTHS BEFORE RANDY CUNNINGHAM'S FRESHMAN YEAR.**

Garman rounds his car around a sharp corner smoothly.

People who haven't met the man underneath the pseudonym of Hannibal McFist often get him wrong. Hannibal is comically self-centered and none-too-bright at points, maniacal and just generally a silly, overblown idea. He is not Hannibal.

His true name is Garman Barclay Scramstad. Hannibal McFist is a stage personality, a nickname, created for the mainly young people-oriented McFist Industries. Think Ronald McDonald, or Stephen Colbert, but cooler. They're like Hot Topic, but considerably less controversial for a young man or woman to claim to like in front of their peers. They are popular. Mr. McFist is popular. He's got his own fanbase, Garman does not. Some joke that his real name is even more intimidating than his fake one, one of the rare things in life that can make him smile, other than his wife, Marci.

They're interchangeable names if you ask him, whatever makes anyone more comfortable, so long as it doesn't get ridiculous. Children are excusable, they don't know any better, but when a grown adult goes around calling him Mr. McFist without a joking tone beneath the words, he gets a little dubious. And, maybe, annoyed. Look, he really does care about others on a good day. It's just that, the Ninja always causes him bad days...

Garman pulls and tugs at his hair habitually. It is not a good habit—he's middle-aged, his hair is beginning to fall out on its own, he's only speeding it up. Marci, bless her heart, doesn't mind it in the slightest. He loves her, truly. He does care about it, despite her sweetness. His competitors and employees won't look at him any differently, a simple natural progression in a human being's lifespan, but he would, and that's what matters. With all he has to think about on a daily basis, it's a miracle he hasn't yet gone gray. He'll require hair-dye, then, or whatever the brand-name is of that hair-care product that claims to regrow men's hair. He feels old thinking that, and that cannot do.

There is nothing worse than one's enemy knowing that one is becoming old and frail. Not weak, Garman is too obstinate for such a thing. The enemy in question: the mythic Ninja of Norrisville. Does the Ninja age? Is the Ninja immortal? Is the Ninja, somehow, more than one individual masquerading as one, or an inhuman monster, playing tricks with all of their minds?

He put a great amount of effort into trying to make people believe in the Ninja's existence, however, there wasn't enough evidence, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, he lost his arm in a freak accident, not because of a sword-cut. It takes quite a while before he convinced himself to move on with his life before it consumed him utterly. If he hadn't, there would be no McFist Industries today. However, as can plainly be seen, the searing outrage hasn't left him, he learned to be more tactful about expressing it. He knows that the Ninja exists.

He's breaking the speed-limit now.

Back in the glory days of the Ninja's legends, he-she-it was something of a historical superstar, like the Scarlet Pimpernel, or Zorro, and could be assumed to be little more, if it weren't for the greater substance of the stories surrounding the Ninja's exploits. The Ninja was an elevated celebrity, a common household name in Nobey, before it was even named Nobey. It was unique and a cultural stamp of the region, the populace too gullible not to be swept up by the fancifulness of it, although few, if any, really understood what a 'ninja' was until the West idealized the concept horridly, many decades later.

It faded away into the background sometime in the eighteen-hundreds, re-emerging once again in the forties in the form of several scattered reported 'sightings,' then dissolving back into myth, fable and fairy-tale. Far, far over one-hundred-years; the Ninja's Reign on Norrisville. There is nothing more that Scramstad wishes than for it to be true, for it to be untrue, mere localized word-of-mouth, maybe, if it was, he'd still have both arms...and might still be in-contact with a certain old friend.

He does not have both arms and he is not still in-contact.

He lost his arm and his best friend that fateful day.

It is most certainly not his own fault.

His friend's name was Mac Antfee, and, to others, it may seem a touch overkill to focus so much upon one person, having not seen the other boy (well, they're both adults, now, obviously) in-person or even spoken to him over-the-phone in decades, but, others haven't gone through was Garman has gone through. It's not Mac alone, it's what he represents, and he represents the danger that the Ninja poses upon the whole of humanity. Garman Barclay Scramstad, better known as Hannibal McFist, cares about people and their safety. He does. This is how he cares.

By hating.

His main assistant, Willem Viceroy III, thinks Garman is a bit of an idiot. He knows that. It's clear as day. They have also been working together for years, they know how the other thinks, and it's a joke between them. Garman misses things, sometimes. That's why he has Viceroy around. To keep track of what Garman can't. Viceroy knows that, everyone knows that. It's why Viceroy's role in the whole franchise is that of the smart-aleck henchman, though the...er, effeminate tendencies are real. Garman doesn't think about that part much.

Garman's too preoccupied with something else to bother with such stupidity.

Garman breaks to a stop, tires screeching. The car's sudden halt might be startling to a man with lesser drive, but Garman doesn't even blink. He turns it off and exits, slamming the driver's door shut. He has to be here. He has to see this. He's been waiting for this night his whole life. The night that the Ninja—dies.

He can see the crumpled uniformed body of the Ninja sprawled across the ground, precisely in the fork of two roads. The trees and foliage around are not enough to hide the other person there, the wonderful, thoughtful individual who is responsible for this in the first place. They called Viceroy first, whom immediately after burst into Garman's office, looking for all the world like it was the turning point of the century.

The Ninja is wounded, he'd gasped. Shot. By a gun. An everyday, handheld gun. Unconscious. Get over there.

Garman growls out, "This had better not a trick, or so help me," he needn't say any more.

Adolphe Damas is the other man's name, a short, dark-skinned fellow, and a social-worker. His hatred for the Ninja is nearly as fervent as Garman's. Viceroy? Viceroy's never felt any personal ill-will toward the Ninja, as far as Garman is aware, he just wants something to exercise his wit upon.

"It…it's not," Adolphe swallows hard. His temper is a fiery one when he thinks justice must be served, he does rescue children from their own homes, after all, which Garman finds admirable, but why isn't he more proud of this feat? Adolphe dislikes the Ninja because of the numerous injuries he causes young people, particularly the ones who attend Norrisville High.

Much like Garman, Adolphe does not forget quickly.

"What's the matter with you, Damas?"

"I shot someone." Adolphe confesses as if he suddenly believes Garman is a holy man behind a door. "I shot someone." Oh, right. This guy is used to working with kids. No wonder this is such a monumental occasion for him. Naïve. His hatred isn't strong enough.

Garman is not the best shoulder for comfort. "Well, some things must be done."

Adolphe swallows again, "I know." He steps away.

The Ninja has not moved this entire time. Garman comes closer with extreme caution. Normally, the thing is like a hummingbird, perpetually in motion, never standing still long enough to get a clear bullet into its goddamn brain, and now this—did it just twitch?

No. No, it didn't. Thank god.

Hauling it into the backseat of his car—still no movement—Garman prepares to hand it over to the Sorcerer. Whatever shall be done, he'll get to watch, the Sorcerer had promised Garman, several years ago, and, heh. Why not?

He does not bid Damas goodbye.

He is grinning like a madman, his blood roars in his ears, tonight is the night, and is that the sheen of a sword? Garman hates swords, ever since the day he lost his arm.

Yes, it's a sword, but it merely slipped out of its case. The Ninja did not touch it. Good. Thank…thank god. Garman does not fear the Ninja, but he does feel queasy when swords are involved. He has spent long hours studying the things, trying to get over his own phobia…and it's worked, slightly.

He drives fast but carefully.

Its chest is moving. It's just breath. Get a hold of yourself, Scramstad.

The ride is surprisingly uneventful.


	2. The Origins

_- The Origins._

* * *

**- NINE YEARS AGO.**

Their shaggy home is thick with the smell of trash not taken out.

_Why should I do anything for either of you? It's not my turn to take out the trash! You're the ones treating me like I'm not part of the family!_

Scraps of food lie here and there. Not even the dog would eat them. If they had one.

_Your dog died because you couldn't take care of him. You treated him wrong and now it's your fault he died! How does it feel to know how irresponsible you are? This is why you should listen to me more often. This is exactly why._

He was four when Count Rufus died. Rufus was only three. He'd been there when Randall was so, so little and vulnerable to his big dog-teeth, but the dog never laid a fang on him. He was a good guard-dog. He was young, didn't need to die, but he developed tumors in his abdomen. He died once on the operating table, the vets brought him back, but clearly the universe hated Randall and immediately found another reason to kill poor Rufus off. He was a purebred weimaraner, and the purebreds always die quicker than mutts.

He grew a cyst in his nose, which proved to be malignantly cancerous. They had to put him down. He couldn't eat, his face hurt too much. Some nights he could barely breathe, and Randy had to try and fall asleep to the sound of his most loyal buddy doing his best to sleep too (and to the sound of his dad throwing tissue boxes at him, "Fuck all, dog, let me sleep!") only to end up hacking again for his brave efforts.

It hadn't occurred to Randall that he'd been a bad owner until his father pointed it out to him, a couple days after they visited the vet for the very last time. His teachers started informing Ava when she came to pick him up from school that he appeared to smile, laugh and interact with the other children less, then, they stopped informing. It became the new average expectation of behavior for Mr. Cunningham.

Randall volunteers to take out the trash. Zack huffs through his nose in triumph. He's gotten his way again. Mr. Cunningham is his father's name. Not his. He makes sure to correct the teachers when they refer to him as such. It just sounds weird. Randy's not a grown-up. They think he's being smart. Oh, well.

Randall comes back inside feeling tired suddenly. He sits down on the carpet, not noticing how everything is much quieter than when he went out. Most of his toys are broken, Dad broke them. The tense quiet only lasts for so long.

"God!"

Randall Marcus Cunningham stares fixedly at the carpet, trying his hardest to ignore the overwhelming pressure in the air. It feels loose and at the same time ready to implode. Unhinged. It feels like there is no sanity or peace anywhere in the whole entire house, this small, somewhat falling-apart-in-some-places suburban home he's lived in for as long as he can remember being alive. He grew up here, and he never really registered that the complete chaos happening around him, sometimes to him, might not actually be normal.

The loud noises of things crashing and breaking and hitting the wall in the middle of the night, or at the peak of noon if his dad is just thatpissed-off. Not healthy. It sucks, when you've lived with something going on in the background all of your short, young life, and suddenly it becomes all too clear to you that the people you live with are screwed-up, and maybe you shouldn't be near them.

"_God!_"

Little Randall has no idea how to respond to the image of his father hunched over the kitchen counter, hair astray, face purplish-red and obscured by tightly-clenched fists pressed against his eyes, so he doesn't acknowledge it. It might have been the wrong thing to do. He's six years.

"Why—_the fuck_—don't either of you—_listen_ to me?!"

Randall must have made a mistake, again. He can't remember what it is. The kids at school make fun of him for having a daddy who shoves him out the car door every other morning mad at him. The teachers are concerned. Huh? Why? He wondered. He thinks he is beginning to understand, now. The questions they asked always, for some reason, didn't feel quite right to answer...it comes crashing down on Randall all at once: I'm one of those bad, sad kids. The ones grown-ups are always warning us to report to them if we see 'em.

By that, Randall means the long, meaningful speeches the school-people give during school-wide gatherings. It's always at the start of a new school-year. They are super-serious, eye-contact-y, imprinting the concept of Not-All-Families-Are-Happy-Like-Yours. Hopefully, every child listening is learning this for the first time ever. _If you ever, ever see another child being hurt unfairly by an adult, you come tell an adult whom you trust right away...this is called, 'child abuse...'_

No one will get in trouble if they tell. This is bigger than tattle-telling. This is an important Life Thing.

One of Randall's classmates, Howard Weinermann, lives down the street from him, and he saw Randall's dad pushing around and yelling at Randall's mom, yesterday, in front of the garage Randall told him to not tell anyone and to leave them alone. Mom didn't buy everything on the grocery list that Dad told her to. The resulting argument, mostly one-sided, hadn't fazed Randall, it was a normal occurrence. "Don't you care about our son?! Jesus! It's like you don't care that he exists! Do you want him—and me—to starve?!" If she responded, he did not hear it.

Randall's father pounds his knuckles on the counter-top and...screams? Roars? Some kind of angry sound. It's an ugly, muffled sound. Randall closes in on himself further, forgetting how to speak. He hopes that Daddy will only break things that don't matter to Randall, this time. He hopes that he will stomp to the master bedroom and be mad in there.

"ANSWER ME!"

Randall shocks himself as well as his father.

"WITH WHAT?"

His father's head snaps up at the completely unexpected response. So does Randall's, from its spot smashed against his kneecaps. His mother pipes up from the rotten couch, voice small, "Randy!" She's still there? Oh, good. She gets lost sometimes and Randall can never find her until she comes back in tears.

His father stands ramrod upright.

His mother looks at him, then, and shrieks, "Zack!" It starts out normally, then it seems to unleash her, building from the Z to the K, "zzzZZA_AACKKK!_" It stops Randall's heart and his father—Zack—in his tracks, marching toward his son, if only because of how shockingly new it is, "Don't you do anything! Don't you do a damn thing! You just sit still right there, while they come, because they are coming, god damn you, and you aren't staying here for much longer!" It makes no sense to Randall.

Randall is six.

He is six, and the police are coming to take his father away. His mother, Ava, spoke to the Weinermanns while Zack was at work as a security guard this morning. They phoned social services. They knew what was going on at all because of what Howard told them he saw.

Mommy talked to a neighbor and didn't tell Dad? Daddy always wants to know when Mom does stuff like that! (Ava winces visibly. The officers whistle.)

_What about Howard, Mom?_

_Oh, well...he likes you a lot, Randall, and he wants to be your friend._

Oh.

_When can I see him?_

_Can you not talk to me right now, sweetheart?_

_Okay..._

"Hello? Hello! My name is Adolphe Damas, I'm your social-worker...hi there, young man! You look tired! You don't need to be worried, I'm just here to talk with you and your mama a bit..."

**- WEEKS LATER.**

Therapy? Therapy's for crazy people, isn't it? The people who run around slobbering and screaming gibberish. It is assured to Randall that ofcourse he's not a crazy person, this is mandatory for every child to experience when their parents file for divorce...when they file for it as aggressively as Randall's parents have, anyway.

Divorce, he's heard of that before. The Most Horrible Thing a kid can go through most times. There was this boy Randall goes to school with who went around the school telling anybody who'd listen that he had a divorce now. He didn't quit saying it until a teacher came up to him and corrected him. His parents are divorcing, not him. Randall can sort of understand why the boy believed that he was in the center of it.

Everyone in this room keeps pointing out to him again and again: the children are always the center of family issues, or, they should be. It affects them most. He listens to a secretary lady comfort a crying girl, "I dunno what's going on, miss."

"It'll be alright, sweetheart, your mommy and daddy will be back out in a minute..."

Really, Randall will think, looking back on this time of his life in the future, her parents must have been really neglectful if they just arrived here at the court-house without at least attempting to explain what was happening to their child beforehand. It hurts a little, and the girl's confusion tastes like mixed piquancy, not sure about this, not sure about that, but Randall manages not to fidget or hum the whole time. It's hard. Why does sitting still make the ends of his toes and fingers ache so bad? Everyone else does it with no problem...

He picks up a magazine. Its subject is martial arts, and it has an article on Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee! He's the coolest! Suddenly, Randall feels better all-around, something familiar, one of the few films his father would let him watch no matter how agitated he was. Randall has a tendency to pick up certain words or phrases and repeat them endlessly, much to his dad's chagrin. Even his mom got a bit tired of it sometimes.

"This is totally bruce!" He can't help but blurt. The way he says it doesn't make it odd, the adults and kids in the waiting-room with him immediately understand that this is something he often says, and they smile a mite sadly at the young boy trying to cheer himself up in the midst of an event bigger than him.

Humbled by his enduring charm and the shadows of sleeplessness under his dark blue eyes.

It's his turn to see the therapist, finally. She's a nice young lady, and she asks him a lot of questions, making sympathetic clicking noises with her tongue every time she hears something that she does not agree with. When he's finished talking with her, he's been diagnosed with synesthesia and anxiety disorder. Later, on his next visit, he'll also be noted as having quite a few verbal tics.

"I like McFist stuff!"

"Oh, a lot of kids do." She mumbles something under her breath, "Obsessive tendencies..."

He doesn't know what that means, but he acts excited, anyway. Acting happy makes others worry about him less. People worrying about him is annoying. "Yep, that's me, Randall Cunningham!"

For a second she seems stricken that he overheard her, but then she grins back, "I'm so glad that you're proud of who you are!"

"Yeah!"

She changes the subject.

"Do you mind if I call you Randy?"

"Huh? Um...nope! I don't mind one bit!"

"Do you have any friends who call you Randy?"

"Howard is my friend, but no, nobody calls me that, miss. But I'll tell Howard to call me it! Maybe then he'll let me call him Howie..."


	3. A New Start

**—FRESHMAN YEAR.**

Howard gazes at the walls of lockers around him like they are made of gold, "Dude! We finally made it! We are freshmen! This is _so_ the _cheese!_"

'Cheese' is Randy's thing to say, but he doesn't mind Howard saying it. Howard Weinermann is his best friend. Howard's always been around, since the third grade. If he's ever frustrated with Randy for his many habits and repetitive verbal tics, he hides it well. That's all Randy wants: the ability to talk to someone without the inevitable spike of aggravation entering the lines and creases of their face. That's what Howard gives him. Randy can't imagine asking for more.

Randy puffs out his chest, "I _know!_"

"Randy Cunningham, right?" Chirps Principal Slimovetz, jogging down the hall to meet Randy. Everyone knows the principal by now, thanks to the meeting in the auditorium, "I've heard a lot about you! Your old teachers sent me quite a few emails concerning you," because in a little parish like Nobey, a staff-member of the school-district knows everybody _else_ in the school-district by name, especially when a staff-favorite student–or at least staff-widely known student–needs a hand or two in their opinions.

Slimovetz gestures to a room someways behind the three of them, "Can you step into my office? No, you're not in trouble, son, I've been waiting to meet you these past few days," Randy's pretty sure Slimovetz does not in fact possess a larynx, instead speaking through an organic set of wind-chimes he came to own through a series of highly-advanced experimental surgeries during youth. What is he, gay? Not that Randy judges or anything. "Your friend can come, too."

"Really? That's great!" Randy wants to hit himself right after. He didn't even answer the first question. Ugh, why is he so bad at talking to people? Then again, Slimovetz just kind of kept on talking before he could answer, so maybe it was rhetorical. That realization soothes his nerves and not for the first time, Randy is in awe of his own thoughts and literally how much more quickly they can spiral out of control than the average person's.

Slimovetz' office is a surprisingly big room, with lots of awards hung here and there and personal photographs of family. Apparently, he's married. Who could'a thunk.

"Yep, I'm Randy Cunningham, I mean," he amends, "British from my dad's side, all Orleans from my mom's—"

"That's very interesting to know!" No, it isn't. Shut up, Principal Slimovetz, you're a transparent liar. Shut up, Randy, cynicism doesn't suit you. It suited your father, not you…hey, that catchphrase was goin' outta style, anyway…

"Cheese," he mutters, next, pleased to find that the zest of that verbal-tic has not yet worn down on his tongue.

Slimovetz pauses his charade of fakeness momentarily, "I'm sorry, what was that?" Or, uh, not 'fakeness,' just…this guy sure does have a cartoony voice.

"Er," begins Randy, "I said, um…were my old teachers really that worried about me?"

"Oh, _extremely_," stresses Slimovetz.

Fantastic. Thank you, Norrisville Middle School, for the vote of confidence. Anyway.

"Were your panic-attacks any worse over the summer than when you were in school? Is there any reason you feel you may need to start taking your pills again?" Aren't these things that his doctor should be asking him…Oh, god, no. Not the pills. Migraine central. Randy's responding full-body shudder might carry a slightly darker note to it than he usually allows himself to feel, but Slimovetz interprets it as silliness, and tells Randy so. Randy grins back, "No, no, I've been fine, don't worry about me, and _not the pills_," he swallows the _please_ before it can ruin his image.

"Good, good—"

More questions. Does this guy have a fascination with anxiety-attacks or _what_. Howard is skillfully blank-faced. For once, Randy can't tell if he is being tactful or if he's really laughing like a buffoon on the inside like he usually is.

Slimovetz smiles in a way that he must think is reassuring, "Of course, the last thing anyone wants is to trigger you."

Ah, the attacks.

They aren't panic-attacks.

But, they are _definitely_, attacks.

The summer previous, Randy entered his room to find a strange item on his bed. He stared at it for a very long time, what was it? He hadn't put it there. He didn't recognize the book. It seemed very old, a little worn at the corners, black and red. Yet, it also seemed very well taken care of, somehow. As if its owners couldn't dream of ever mishandling it. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he'd seen a figure move in the windowpane. He figured it must have been his mind playing tricks on him.

He opened the book and found a whole new motivation for getting over his own issues.

The Ninja's job is very specific. Fight monsters and whatever else there may be in the area which threatens the innocent. Simple and clear enough for Randy's short-attention-span tastes. Randy isn't really sure why he calls it 'stanking,' honestly. Or 'destanking.' It just seems to fit. The Namakon simply calls it, 'being possessed by the darkness of one's heart,' which is bruce enough on its own, but Randy's got his own _style_, yanno. He has to come up with his own little lexicon. It's the way he rolls. It makes him feel better.

Slimovetz goes on and on, and Randy half-drowns him out until he's finished with the necessities, _Glad you're having a good day, have a good evening, hope things are going well at home,_ if Randy had a nickle for every time he's heard those ones...Howard waits patiently. That's Howard for you, a jerk when it comes to everything except for Randy's mental issues. He knows just as well as Randy does that Randy is probably going to know every counselor by name by the time the first week of school is over with. That's fine.

The talk is over with finally and the office door shuts behind them quietly. Howard speaks up. "Need me to be your pill-clock again?" The 'pill-clock.' Randy needs to take pills once at school every day. One or ADD, another for ADHD, blah-blah. Howard and he used to make a game out of it: whoever could remember it before the other won. Randy's mother called it useful.

"Nah, man. I'm cool. I'm fifteen."

"Juuust checkin'."

The bell rings. The seven minutes between classes are over. It's a strict rule: feet in a classroom, or be counted tardy. His father hated being timed. Or rushed, for that matter. Randy thinks of him, Zack Cunningham, in jail for domestic abuse. He thinks of all the times his father screamed at him and told him that he wasn't worth anything at all.

A trifle more than a bit uncertain, Randy puts on his brightest smile, because he is not his father, and he is not going to lose his head.


End file.
